


In the employment of M. Poirot

by felicitylemons



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: 1920s, Friendship, Gen, Queer Gen, Queer Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:36:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9311771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felicitylemons/pseuds/felicitylemons
Summary: It is common knowledge that Miss Felicity Lemon is the personal secretary of the esteemed Belgian detective, M. Hercule Poirot. However, what is not common knowledge is how he became Miss Lemon's longest—and most valued—employer.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I've written in a while, and the first I've written for the Poirot series. I would love any feedback on it! My french is also very poor, so please let me know if I got any of it wrong!
> 
> This particular story takes place in the late 1920's, as I'm assuming Miss Lemon was Poirot's first secretary as a private detective in London.

It has been recently brought to my attention that I have never recounted the story of how I came into the employment of the esteemed Belgian detective M. Poirot—or rather—how he became my longest running employer in my history as a professional secretary. Captain Hastings has succeeded in persuading me to write this account myself, stating that someday—when this work can safely be published of course—it will be a well desired piece of writing (he may also have mentioned ‘for the records’ in this conversation, which I will have to admit did help in bringing me around to the idea). Therefore, I have agreed to outline this tale as honestly as I can manage. 

***

For readers to make sense of this story, I feel that it’s necessary to explain some things about my previous situations before continuing. It may come as a surprise to some that before M. Poirot, I was in the habit of not staying under the same employer for more than a year— _not_ due to lack of skill mind you! In fact, I have many encouraging references from my former employers (those of whom I left in good spirits anyway). At any rate, it was for a much different reason that I tended to not stay in one place for too long. 

It was no secret that I was (and still am) a woman well past a marrying age and who was yet to be as such. Of course, this was no cause for concern for most of my former employers who much preferred a secretary that would not get distracted by a prospective husband while on the job. However, many would take notice of the extra attention I gave to their female clients and put two and two together. And, naturally, they were right. Obviously, I would _never_ do anything that would incriminate myself or any woman I ‘acquainted’ myself with, so if my employer took offence of my actions he would have only his suspicions to act on and nothing more. Without any evidence of course, he would simply suggest I seek employment elsewhere to avoid gossip or scandal on both our parts. Conversely, as was more often the case, many of my former employers made no notice of my behavior or chose not to act upon it—which was extremely lucky for me I might add! However, I had no way of knowing which was the case; so, for my own safety, I chose to leave most of my lasting positions after a year. The chaos of having to constantly adjust to new employment only to leave soon after—well, it was torturous to say the least! But in a way, it became another orderly part of my life in the end.

Therefore, when I was approaching 8 months as M. Poirot’s secretary, I began to feel anxious. He was an up-and-coming private detective at the time with an intelligence I’d only seen before once, and I feared that if I stayed much longer he would surely find me out. So, on a particularly quiet morning I approached my employer with the letter of resignation that I had resolved to type up the night before.  
I opened the doors to the sitting room with enough sound to alert M. Poirot to my presence. He was sitting at his desk, reading the morning post over a cup of _tisane_ I’d prepared for him earlier.

“M. Poirot? Do you have a moment?”

He regarded me over the top of his pince-nez with mild interest; after all, the fact that I had approached him—not through the small window to my office but in the sitting room and without a client—meant important business. 

“ _Naturellement_ , Miss Lemon.” He stood as I approached and made to remove his pince-nez, but stopped when he noticed the paper in my hand. With one of his small, polite smiles, he motioned to the chair in front of his desk. “Please to sit.”

I did as instructed and handed him my letter, bracing myself for the conversation I knew would soon follow. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m handing in my two-week’s notice.”

M. Poirot took the letter from me with an expression of concern clear on his round face. His brow furrowed deeper and deeper as he read until he threw the paper down in between us with one of his Gallic sounds I took to mean frustration. 

“But Miss Lemon, I do not understand!” He exclaimed. “I have made the most suitable working environment, _N’ai-je pas?_ And the pay, is it not substantial?”

“Oh, yes. And of course it is!” I replied cordially. It wasn’t the first time I had heard such questions, of course.

“Then… it is my profession?”

Again, I disagreed. I gently reminded him of one of my previous employers, who (quite coincidentally) also happened to be a private detective. 

“Ah, yes. _Je me souviens_. Then your reason for leaving your position here is…?”

At this point I was getting very frustrated with him, as well as a little apprehensive. Never had I ever had an employer so persistent on needing to know why I wanted to seek different employment!

“I think you very well _know_ the reason, M. Poirot.” I said quite sternly. I had hoped the severity in my voice would cause him to back down, which was very naïve of me at the time. Now I know better than to think M. Poirot would _ever_ pass up on finding the truth.

“You are correct, Miss Lemon. But I had hoped you would trust in Poirot a little.” He rose from his chair to face the window, removing his pince-nez in one delicate motion. I stared at his back while M. Poirot looked out into the street, as if he was waiting for me to speak. But I found myself quite incapable of telling him my deepest and most securely guarded secret, no matter how sympathetic he looked when he turned back around to face me. 

“ _Peu importe_. I will tell you what I know, and then you can tell me if I am right.” 

I focused my attention on some offending speck of dust on my skirt, unable to look at my employer as he spoke.

“One does not need to have the intelligence of Poirot to see that you are a woman who has yet to be married, _n’est-ce pas?_ Of course, this is not of much concern; perhaps you are just, how do you say, ‘married to the job’? Ah, but you are not the grizzled old spinster! Any man, he would be a fool not to attempt to court you, eh?”

I blushed a particularly nasty shade of red at his compliment despite myself. Although, embarrassingly, I was already quite flustered by the whole situation at that point. How I must have looked then I shudder to think!

“What is most odd, then,” He continued, “is that you have had no male callers, no letters from a gentleman ‘friend’, no lunches with _les homme beau_. And,” He walked around his desk to stand beside me, forcing me to look at him so I wouldn’t seem impolite. M. Poirot had an expression on his face like one you would give to a child who’d scraped their knee. “I have heard some… gossip about you, Miss Lemon, from some of your former employers.” He said delicately. “They implied that you are a woman who, you must forgive me, a woman who is inclined towards women?” 

My heart stopped. I had a feeling that this would happen the moment I endeavored to remove myself from his employment—though I had naively hoped everything would go swimmingly. My employer was a private detective after all, one who had the admirable skill of seeing the little things that the average person wouldn’t even think to look for. No matter how careful I was, it was inevitable that he would find out. 

“Well, they would be correct.” I admitted shakily.

Even though I was beginning to feel sick with nerves, I maintained my composure as best I could—I was a lady after all, one who would not allow herself to be known as being hysterical. Such a performance would definitely not help my position either. 

The severity of the situation had finally settled in my consciousness. England was still suffering the effects from the Great War, and good work for a woman was hard to come by. M. Poirot held significant influence in London society even then, and if he disapproved... 

My mother would surely be disgusted by the news, and at the very least would do anything in her power to never speak to me again. My dear cat, I feared, would starve if I couldn't afford the food for her. My sister, the only other soul who knew of my secret, lived overseas and couldn't help me under any circumstance. I'd endangered myself at the worst possible time. I wondered what my father, may he rest in peace, would have thought about his daughter begging in the streets like an urchin.

Steeling myself against his piercing gaze, I made the effort to look him in the eyes in one last expression of courageous countenance. “What will you do now, M. Poirot?”

“Me? I will do nothing.” He stated plainly.

A wave of relief washed over me and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding (Always, Felicity, you work yourself up over nothing!). How lucky I had been—the stars had certainly aligned themselves in my favor that day! 

“But- But why ever not?!” I exclaimed, also quite shocked at this turn of events. After all, his reply was most unexpected. 

M. Poirot moved once more around his desk to sit in his chair behind it. He leaned back slightly and tented his fingers together, something he did often when he was thinking. Luckily, the pause in our conversation only lasted a moment. 

“Do you know why I hired you to be my secretary, Miss Lemon?” He questioned me. 

“I assume it was because of the reference you received from my previous employer…?”

He gave me a small smile. “Oui. You were suggested to me as being a secretary _plus méthodique_ , perfect for the needs of Poirot! However, this was not the only reason why I hired you.”

I arched my eyebrow in bemusement and wondered what on earth he was insinuating. Seeing my puzzled expression, M. Poirot leaned closer to me with an inscrutable look on his face. 

“I hired you primarily because I… understand. I understand how difficult it is to find the secure employment when you are… _so_.”

“Oh my.” 

Suddenly, everything began to make sense. How had I not realized this sooner? His expression had not been one of sympathy, as I had believed, but one of empathy. And of course, I hadn’t paid it much thought before, but M. Poirot was 8 years my senior (which I knew from handling his passport and other such papers, naturally) and had also never been married. Furthermore, there were many fine lady clients of his who had seemed, at least to me, quite interested in him; My employer, however, was always more interested in the cases than the women. I was not such a good judge of character as I had thought!

“Of course,” He continued. “You may leave if it is still your wish to do so. Poirot cannot stop you.”

I was so wrapped up in my own conflicts that I had completely forgotten about our original engagement. 

“You know, M. Poirot, I don’t think there’s much reason to look for another employer anymore. Do you?” I gave him a wide smile and he returned it happily.

“No, _Je ne pense pas qu'il y ait!_ Then you will remain as my secretary?” 

“Oh, most definitely!”

“ _Bon._ ” He beamed at me with pride. “And I trust you will dispose of this letter _plus efficacement?"_

He slid my letter of resignation towards me on the desk. I took it in agreement and finally rose from my chair. I made to walk back to my office but paused at the door leading into the hallway.

“M. Poirot?”

He looked back up at me over a letter he’d started to read as I was walking away. “Yes, Miss Lemon?”

“Thank you.”

“ _Ce n'est rien._ ” 

***

I would like to state for the record that my employer has never been anything but amiable to me over the many years I’ve spent as his secretary. He’s even been so kind as to allow me to help him with some of his many intriguing cases. I would be quite embarrassed to say it directly, but I might even say he has become a very good friend. One thing's for certain: I have been extremely lucky to be in the employment of M. Poirot.

**Author's Note:**

> The employer Miss Lemon is referring to is Mr. Parker Pyne, another one of Dame Christie's detectives. Miss Lemon is also the name of Pyne's secretary, and it is assumed that she is the same Miss Lemon as Poirot's secretary (Ariadne Oliver also appears in the Pyne series).
> 
> This story was written mostly as a way to practice Miss Lemon's character, and to explore my own headcanons for her. For example, I imagine that her father died in the war.
> 
> And lastly, a special thanks to fjm for pointing out some historical inaccuracies I made, which have since been fixed!
> 
> French Translations:  
>  _N’ai-je pas_ = have I not  
>  _Je me souviens_ = I remember  
>  _Peu Importe_ = It does not matter  
>  _Je ne pense pas qu'il y ait_ = I do not think there is  
>  _Ce n'est rien_ = It is nothing  
> 


End file.
